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I marvelled at how our hands matched: rough, calloused, our oil-and-grease-stained nails. We each had cuts and bumps on our fingers. These hands worked hard for our money, but they also loved and caressed and touched . . . I knew his hands, how they felt on my body, how he loved to hold hands . . . I brought his knuckles up to my lips, closed my eyes, and cried.
💔
